Polite. Calm. Her work voice. Slightly higher than her natural register.
I sip the coffee. It’s garbage. Doesn’t matter.
She’s doing what she’s always done: making herself small. Useful. Palatable.
I scroll one screen over. Kozlov case updates are pouring in.
Text from Lev:
Rodriguez’s body turned up in the wash behind Tropicana. Police think it’s cartel. Idiots.
I fire back:
We made sure there’s nothing that ties back to us?
A beat, then Lev’s reply:
Of course, boss. Clean as it gets.
Another message follows. This time from Boris:
Spy piece is live. We’re all patched in—me, Lev, Dima. We’ll hear everything she does today.
I leave it on read.
Kozlov’s running scared. That’s fine. Scared men make mistakes.
But this isn’t about Kozlov right now.
Not entirely.
I toggle back to Mary’s feed. The bank’s louder now, background chatter, phones ringing, keyboards clacking.
Then I hear her again.
“Yes, I can go over those charges with you, ma’am. It’ll just take a moment.”
Still polite. Still steady.
But something in her tone pulls me upright a little. Not alarm. Not discomfort.
Sadness?
Or just fatigue.
I log her location. Still near the front. Stationary.
I check every ten seconds. I time the rhythm of her breath when she pauses between sentences.
I don’t need to.
But I do.
Because she’s in there, surrounded by variables I can’t control. And for someone like me, that’s unacceptable.
I type a quick command. Snapshot all incoming call logs from Brightside’s front desk. Flag Janice’s name. Match timestamps to audio spikes.
The program pings back almost instantly.
